


Chance of Recovery

by eighth_chiharu



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caretaking, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sick Dave, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighth_chiharu/pseuds/eighth_chiharu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave comes down with something serious, leaving Bro to help him out. The weather, however, has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance of Recovery

School isn't Dave's favorite subject, and when he wanders through the living room at 9:07am on a cloudy Thursday morning, Bro can't help but tease him about it. "Kinda late today, ain’tcha?"  
  
Dave gives the same answer any shambling undead would. He grunts wordlessly, scoops up his backpack from where he'd dropped it the night before, still zipped up, and hefts it over one shoulder. With concentrated silence, he goes to the pile of footwear by the front door, digs out his red canvas sneakers and pulls them on, tugging them up slowly, carefully.  
  
Man, someone is not awake today at all.  
  
"Shoe's untied," Bro calls helpfully from the futon, but Dave doesn't even glance down, leaving the dirty white laces dangling. Damn, maybe Bro has used that joke one too many times. "Your turn to cook dinner. Don't forget."  
  
Dave shoots him a look that a normal person would interpret as a blank stare due to the sunglasses taking up most of Dave's face, but Bro is a pro at reading implacable expressions, and this one definitely says 'fuck off'. He drags the door open and practically throws himself out of it, shutting it at the last minute.  
  
Bro shakes his head. Teenagers.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Exactly six hours later, Dave comes home the way he left, dropping his backpack in the same place -- still zipped up -- and kicking off his still-untied shoes into the same pile. He goes straight through the apartment, not even bothering to acknowledge Bro's cheerful and rather sudden demand for a strife.  
  
Bro raises an eyebrow as Dave passes him, bemused. This is new. Dave does a variety of things when Bro attacks, and none of them are total disregard. For once, Bro feels a little silly standing there in the middle of an urban apartment with a naked blade and ninja intentions.   
  
"Hey," he says at last, calling over his shoulder, "what was that?"  
  
He receives no answer. Dave disappears into his room, and Bro has to make a decision. Lecture Dave for ignoring him and sound like a fusty old man, or let him be and see if his mood improves on its own. He's tempted to do the latter, though it goes against his own personal creed of master-apprentice relationships, when his cell phone beeps out an alarm to check his Paypal. Sheathing the sword, he pulls out the phone to kill the alarm and notices the time.  
  
3:07pm.  
  
He stares at the screen for a moment, the alarm chirping away. "...Huh."  
  
School lets out at 3. Dave shouldn't have been home until 3:30 at the earliest.  
  
Shutting the alarm off, armed with a new excuse to bother Dave, Bro strolls to his little brother's room. He raps confidently on the wooden doorjamb, leaning inside without actually stepping in. "Hey, you're home early. You, y'know, skip your last class?"  
  
Dave doesn't move from where he lies facedown on the bed. "No," he mumbles, his face mostly in the pillow.  
  
Bro purses his lips in an affected display of ignorance, even though nobody's looking at him. "But you're early. Why'd they let you out? Construction? Fire? Good behaviour?"  
  
There's an uncomfortable pause. Bro stays in the doorway, prepared to wait all day for an answer, arms crossed over his broad chest. After what seems like forever, Dave caves, sounding distinctly embarrassed as he says, "I fell asleep."  
  
"In class?"  
  
More pausing. "... yeah."  
  
Bro makes a clicking sound with his tongue. Oh, the shame. What a slacker he's raised. "Maybe we need to cut back on the internet."  
  
"I wasn't online." Dave huffs, a distinct whine to his tone. "Bro, I just want a nap. Can we do this later?"  
  
A legitimate request in most cases, if Dave hadn't stayed up late and slept in this morning. This is one of those 'give an inch and they'll take a yard' things, isn't it? "After you make dinner."  
  
Another giant, long-ass gigapause. Dave pushes himself up from the bed, his blond hair sticking out and his sunglasses crooked. He walks slowly to the bedroom door and scowls at Bro. "You make a better door than you do a window."  
  
Finally getting a chance to look his charge over, Bro has to admit Dave does look tired. He's sleep-rumpled despite lying down for less than five minutes, and he's pale, his cheeks a splotchy red. Without asking, Bro pulls Dave’s shades off, looking into his eyes. They're rimmed with pink, small smudges of dark color beneath them. Heat tickles at Bro’s fingers.  
  
"Stop," Dave grumps, drawing back.  
  
Bro does the ignoring this time, the warmth coming off of Dave prompting him to cup Dave's face in both gloved hands. Dave makes a noise and tries to twist away, but Bro keeps hold of him, the barest of frowns tugging the corner of his mouth down. "You're hot." He moves one hand to Dave's forehead, then to the back of his neck. "Too hot. You feel okay?"  
  
It's a stupid question, Dave probably feels crappy if he’s got a temperature, but it's just what you say to get this kind of dialogue going. Dave doesn't want to talk, though. He looks away, shrugging, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes. "Yeah."  
  
Crying? O-kay, definitely feeling crappy. Bro lets go, mood shifting. A bit of guilt pokes at him that he didn't notice earlier, but he doesn't let it linger. He can feel bad later. Right now, it's time to make sure Dave doesn't do something else stupid, like make dinner out of sheer stubbornness when he obviously needs to take the night off. Not that stubbornness doesn’t have its place now and again, but Dave is still growing and it’s up to Bro to ensure that Dave actually survives to adulthood.  
  
"You know what, I think I want pizza. Go take your nap. I'll wake you up when the food gets here."  
  
Dave squints at him, and Bro can see him wavering between giving in and fighting back. "Yeah, but --"  
  
"Go on, get napping." Bro musses Dave's hair roughly and gives his head a careful, light push. Dave hesitates, and Bro leaves before there can be any more arguing. Dumb kid. Probably just wore himself out, anyhow. Sleep is exactly what he needs.

  
* * * * * *

  
The cloudy sky decides it's pissed off, and the pizza man has to fight the storm that drops out of the heavens like one of the Four Horsemen, dumping loud, noisy rain on the whole tri-city area. Bro tips him like the hero he is. Gotta give props where props are due: the pizza is still hot when it arrives, and the man remembered those little packets of chili peppers that are absolutely necessary for anyone with taste buds.  
  
Bro wakes Dave, as promised, but Dave shows little interest in eating. Bro prods him a bit, and Dave ends up forcing down half a piece of pizza, chewing and swallowing like it’s hard labor. He drinks two glasses of apple juice a little faster before almost passing out at the table. Literally. Bro is out of his chair the second Dave starts to slump sideways, grabbing the glass and Dave before either of them can get even six inches toward the floor. The heat coming through Dave's shirt almost burns Bro's hand, and he makes a decision.  
  
He sets the glass down and takes Dave's arm. "Futon, kiddo. Let's get you all nice and cozy."  
  
Dave whines again, which just proves that he’s not himself. Dave would usually cut off his own leg before sounding like the child he is. "Why can't I sleep in my room?"  
  
"Because you almost took a header off the chair, that's why. I wanna keep an eye on you. Humor your old man."  
  
"Not my old man," Dave mutters, but he stands. He has something else smart to say, but after the first step his face goes gray, his eyes blank and wide. "Bro..." It's fearful and warning at the same time, and one hand comes up to palm uselessly at Bro's arm before Dave faints completely away.   
  
Bro catches him of course, and at the same time he makes the unconscious mental switch from 'brother' to 'parent'. He doesn't do it often, but shit just got real. His kid is in trouble.  
  
He lifts Dave easily and carries him to the futon, laying him gently on the battered cushion and tucking a blanket over his legs. He snags a bottled water and a trash can just to be ready -- too many similar experiences -- before taking Dave's too-hot hand, patting it persistently. "Dave? Wake up, buddy, don't make me take you to the clinic. C'mon, kiddo."  
  
Dave stirs, and something in Bro unravels in relief. "What..."  
  
"You passed out. What's going on? Talk to me, little man. What hurts?"  
  
His color stays bad, but Dave shrugs, embarrassed. "Nothing, just... my throat, I guess. But that's it, I'm okay."  
  
Bro snorts. "Yeah, I don't think 'okay' is what this is. You dizzy?”

“... a little.”

“All right. It's cool, we'll get you fixed up. Stay here, I'll be right back. If you're gonna puke, there's the trash."

"Not gonna puke," Dave protests wanly, but Bro is already gone.

When he returns with the thermometer and the Advil, Dave is half asleep. Bro pats his hand again, hoping whatever Dave has isn’t that dengue fever or whatever, because that medication is seriously outside the budget of someone with no health insurance. “Hey, open up. Wanna take your temperature.”

Dave stirs, groggy. “Not my butt.”

"Give me some credit. It's only a couple of degrees difference, and you're not two. I saw enough of your ass when I changed your diapers. Open." He pops the thermometer under Dave's tongue, shaking three pills out of the bottle of Advil while they wait.

"Mmph mh n fu," Dave says, tone telling Bro it’s snarky.

"No talking, or I’m deleting your Pokémon saves. Ah -- there it goes. Gimme." Bro removes the beeping thermometer. "... mm. 102. That's less than encouraging. Looks like you might have the flu, kid. You been talking to anyone sick at school?”

“No,” Dave says, eyes mostly closed. His voice is worn but determined to deliver the sass. “There’s absolutely no-one sick at school. No germs whatsoever. Every single person is 100% healthy.”

Bro gives Dave a look. “You’re lucky I can’t smack you right now. All right, Mysterio, if you’re not better, I’ll call the school tomorrow and see if anything’s goin’ around. Take these --” He hands the pills over, dropping them into Dave’s palm. “-- and go to sleep.”

Dave finds the water beside the trash can by touch. “Read my mind.”

 

* * * * * *

 

The rain does not let up, and neither does Dave’s temperature. Both insist on trying harder, as if they’re in a competition for who can drive Bro crazy first. Bro attempts to look on the good side -- hey, at least the sun isn’t doing that first-thing-in-the-morning blinding-you thing -- but it’s getting a little tough.

He stands in his pyjamas and holds the thermometer, staring at it as if the number will change if he hopes really hard. “103. Kid, this is the opposite of ‘better’.”

Dave doesn’t do much besides lay there, and although it’s barely 7am, even that’s weird. Usually the kid’s not a very good patient. He gripes, he complains he’s bored, he tries to sneak out or move around when he’s supposed to be still. This time, he’s doing nothing. “Sorry. I’ll try work on that.”

“You want breakfast?” Bro asks as he kicks his blankets off the floor where he slept beside the futon, nudging them beneath it at the other end where Dave’s feet don’t quite reach. “Make whatever you want.”

“Sure,” Dave answers without enthusiasm.

Bro tries not to look worried, it’s always better to put up a strong front for the family. “Your throat still hurt?”

Dave shrugs.

“How bad?”

His brother squirms without moving. “... a lot. I guess.” Just admitting that breaks whatever walls of manliness Dave is struggling to maintain, his forehead furrowing as the tears make a comeback. Bro is proud the kid made it this far without complaining, but maybe they need to have a little talk about when appearances are important and when they aren’t. “It hurts a lot.”

“Okay, it’s all right.” Bro kneels beside the futon, putting a hand on Dave’s head. He’s so friggin’ hot. “I’m gonna go to the Sav-On and get you something better than Advil, okay? I’ll bring you back a treat.”

“Okay,” Dave agrees, voice breaking. He sniffles, the tears making his nose run.

Bro strokes his hair a little more. “You’re doin’ great, kiddo. Don’t worry, the flu fucks everyone up.”

Dave shakes his head. “Not you.”

“Nah, it fucks me up good. Remember a couple years ago when I told you we were on ‘staycation’ for two weeks, and we could do anything you wanted that was cheap, and all we did was rent every video game known to man and take you to swim in the pool at the park?”

“Yeah?”

“I was practically dying. Had Jake and Roxy on the phone every half hour asking me if I was okay. Almost did a face plant once when we were walking back from the park.”

“Oh my god.” Dave rolls his eyes. “That’s why you didn’t swim? Bro, you coulda just said. I woulda helped you.”

“Yeah, but you were twelve. I didn’t wanna wreck your summer. And we had fun, right?”

“I guess, yeah, but … jeeze.”

“So see? If I survived that, then you’ll be okay.” Bro ruffles Dave’s hair, trying to ignore how dry it feels. “I’m gonna make the drug run. I’ll be back in ten minutes. You think cool thoughts.”

 

* * * * * *

 

Bro calls the school as he shops at the Sav-On. The office is closed for teacher in-service, of course, so he gets a recording and a directory of extensions. He doesn’t leave a message.

The pharmacist on duty recommends extra-strength Tylenol and tells Bro how much is safe to give someone of Dave’s age and weight. That, plus the cough drops and the numbing throat stuff and a couple of game magazines takes the last of Bro’s ready money: $37.83. It wouldn’t be much if Bro didn’t have most of his cash tied up in an internet venture and a couple of custom soundboards on order, but he does. Now his wallet is empty, and his bank account is close. He has to admit this is pretty much the exact definition of poor planning.

The guilt from before digs itself in a little deeper.

Dave is asleep when Bro returns from his battle with the weather, dripping water from his hat to his soggy shoes. His brother’s thin arms are wrapped around himself, his hair flopped over one eye. He looks exhausted and small, and the worry comes back to gnaw at Bro, the guilt prodding it. Somehow, this is Bro’s fault. He’s supposed to take care of Dave; how could he fail so badly?

Bro shoves the doubt away, scowling. Gently, he moves Dave’s bangs and lays a hand on Dave’s forehead. It’s still ridiculously heated, but Bro is hesitant to wake the kid when he’s actually resting. Medicine now, or medicine when Dave wakes on his own?

He decides to do the medicine later. He changes into dry clothes, drops onto the floor beside the futon and flips the television on, volume low. The rain continues its deluge, helping out the local news with stories of washed-out basements and snarled traffic. Bro is shaking his head at some dumbass who got his car stranded in a flooded dip close to their complex when Dave shifts, a distressing sound that can only be explained as a moan drifting out of him.

Bro turns, anxious, but pushes some encouraging hope into his voice. “Hey, little man. How you doin’?”

Dave frowns, struggling to force his eyes open. The moment he sees Bro, they fill with fresh tears, spilling over and wetting his flushed cheeks. “I don’t feel good.”

Bro’s heart twists painfully. Quickly he puts his hand on Dave’s forehead again, petting softly. “I know, little man, I know. You’ll be better soon, just gotta be patient. You’re doing real good.”

“It hurts.”

“I know. I got you some meds. Sit up a little so you can take em, okay?”

The tears flow faster. “I don’t want to. My head hurts. And my throat.”

“I got something for that too. It’ll help, I promise.” And it better help. It better not make Bro a liar. He fishes the bottle out of the bag and cracks open the plastic safety wrap. “I gotta spray it in. You know, that shit from TV we’re always saying is for sucking dick?”

Dave blinks, surprised into a laugh. It’s nothing like his normal smirk and giggle, it’s more a huff of air and a relaxing of his eyebrows than anything else, but Bro is relieved when the tears slow and Dave opens his mouth obediently.

“Sorry if this tastes like crap, just bear with it for a sec,” Bro warns. “Stick your tongue out.” He kneels up so he can see, lines up the aerator with Dave’s tongue and tilts is just a bit so he can hit the back of Dave’s throat. He sprays three good coats in there before he realizes something. “Okay, uh, swallow. Give it a minute.”

“Gross,” Dave whispers, but almost instantly he starts to relax. “Oh…”

Bro’s not sure who’s more relieved that it works, him or Dave. “Feel better?”

“Fuck yes.” Dave’s eyes drift closed again, his breathing evening out with frightening speed.

“No, wait, hold on, kiddo.” Bro taps Dave’s leg beneath the blanket. “You gotta drink some water, and I need to see your throat.”

Dave takes a fast U-turn back to sulking, his tone whiny again. “No, I wanna sleep.”

“I know you do, but I want you to live, so we’re gonna have to compromise.” He slides an arm behind Dave and lifts his shoulders, pushing him into a sitting position. The heat is incredible, but what’s scariest of all is the lack of sweat, and the way Dave is so limp.

Apparently not sick enough to forget who he is entirely, Dave fidgets weakly. “I can do it.”

“Yeah, I know, humor me.” Bro hooks the water bottle off the floor, uncaps it and helps Dave gingerly take a few sips. After a couple test swallows, the medicine proves itself worthy of its numbing cocksucking claims, and Dave practically deep-throats the bottle. He drains half of it before pushing it away, breathing hard. Bro hugs him. “Good job, kiddo. Now open wide, I gotta see somethin’.”

Dave tries to make a face, but it takes too much energy and he opens his mouth again. Bro takes off his sunglasses to peer inside, eyes straining a little in the dim light of the apartment. The shapes he thought he saw the first time are still there: large, inflamed marbles of angry red flesh at the base of Dave’s esophagus. “... shit. Okay. Uh… shit.”

He shoots a calculating look at the window, and the weather happily gives him a big ‘fuck you’ by blowing more rain against the glass, rattling the cheap panes. Bro has an array of more delectable curse words at his disposal, and he tries to say all of them at once.

“Bro,” Dave murmurs disapprovingly, giving up any pretense of independence to rest his burning head against Bro’s chest. His eyes are closed again, his voice barely audible. “Shhh…”

“Sorry,” Bro replies automatically. Thinking hard, he caps the water bottle and tosses it on the floor, then feels carefully under Dave’s jaw. His little brother jumps at even that slight pressure on his swollen glands, gasps in pain and sobs. Bro wants to kick himself. “Fuck, sorry. I’m sorry. I had to check. Go back to sleep. I’m sorry, little man. It’s okay. Just sleep, all right?”

He climbs onto the futon to pull Dave close, holding him in his lap, Dave’s skinny legs dangling over the side. He adjusts the blanket so Dave is covered, though the kid so hot that Bro is already starting to sweat. He rubs Dave’s back in slow, comforting circles, keeping it up even after Dave lapses back into unconsciousness. They’re both calmer when Bro remembers he didn’t give Dave the Tylenol. The failure is so acute that he almost adds his frustrated tears to Dave’s.

This isn’t fair.

His little brother is in pain. Real pain, not stubbed-toe pain or sprained-ankle pain. He’s got something bad, Jesus the size of his tonsils alone is absurd, and it’s pretty damn obvious it’s nothing that Bro can fix. Dave needs a doctor, but how the fuck is Bro supposed to get one? The streets are filling up with water faster than the damn Sea rushed back on those motherfucking Egyptians -- thank you, 'Prince of Egypt' -- and Bro’s Pinto sure as hell isn’t going to cut through it. The rain also means no busses, no ambulances, at least not where it’s flooded. The free clinic is nine blocks away, and the hospital even farther. What is Bro supposed to do?

“Shit,” Bro whispers to himself, still cradling Dave. He stares out the window at the storm, wracking his brain and trying not to panic. “ _Shit_.”

  
  



End file.
